


you’re one of my favourite few.

by slimeprincess



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Fluff without Plot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29971128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slimeprincess/pseuds/slimeprincess
Summary: New here—I just wanted to write something on a beach lol. Sorry it’s so short. :)The title is from the waterparks song “pink.” [obligatory “please stream waterparks” goes here.]
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 18
Collections: fan_flashworks





	you’re one of my favourite few.

**Author's Note:**

> New here—I just wanted to write something on a beach lol. Sorry it’s so short. :)
> 
> The title is from the waterparks song “pink.” [obligatory “please stream waterparks” goes here.]

At night, the ocean is an inky black, luminescent with the haze of moonlight. It’s late, the kind of early morning hour that’s meant to be spent in sleep, a time of day that may as well not exist. 

The sound of calm waves striking the sand only to be pulled in by the current to do it all over again is the only audible background noise; there’s nobody around, and even the birds must be asleep, as the screeching cries of gulls that are so prominent in the daytime cannot be heard. 

In moments like these, it seems like the world is at peace, and that everything might turn out okay in the end after all. It’s like sitting at the edge of the world, a place where ends meet and everything is quiet. The bright pinpricks of light both from the stars and from boats in the distance would almost give the atmosphere an eerie quality, but everything is too tranquil for that, too pristine.

George is sitting at the place on the shore right where the sand turns from soft and warm to firmly packed and cool, watching the waves reach out to his toes and then shy away, hugging his knees to his chest. The air is just a bit crisp with the absence of the sun, and there are goosebumps lining his forearms, right up to the sleeve of his pink t-shirt. 

He wants to say something, to laugh, but right now there is just this moment in time, and it would be so easy to let himself sink into it. He smooths out a patch of sand with the palm of his hand, picking some up and watching it fall. There’s probably a metaphor in here somewhere if he’d take the time to look for it, but there are too many other thoughts clouding his head. 

If he doesn’t say something, the moment will pass—he somehow knows that to be the truth. There are plenty of jokes to tell, but his mind feels like television static and he can’t come up with any of them. 

“Thanks,” is what he finally manages to settle on, and it sounds half-hearted, kind of hollow, as though he were programmed to say it. 

His companion raises an eyebrow. “Thanks for…?” Dream is smiling, but it’s difficult to tell what mix of emotions lies behind it. He probably already knows what George is going to say, is _supposed_ to say anyway, but he certainly doesn’t offer any hints. 

George vaguely says, “you know…” but he really doesn’t. “Thanks for… meeting me?” It sounds lame, pathetic even, but _thanks for being my friend_ would have implications and _thanks for sharing this moment with me_ would go far beyond being too sappy. 

Dream laughs, and it’s infectious; it makes George giggle. “What, like meeting in person?” He reclines on the soft sand, holding himself up with his arms, and his messy hair looks lighter in the moonlight. “Did you expect me to say no?” It sounds silly, said out loud like that, but the sentiment behind it still has meaning. 

“It’s not like that,” George says with a shrug. But that, too, is just a nonanswer. “It’s just like a nice gesture.” He’s not sure why he’s defending himself—it all seems ridiculous now; they’re both laughing, and it would be so easy just to change the subject. 

“No, thank _you_ ,” Dream says, not letting it go, still making fun of him. 

George humours him. “Thanks for what?” The wind blows through the sand just a little, and he has to cover his eyes for a second. The sound of waves breaking fills the gap of silence. 

“Thanks for…” Dream pretends to think it over, as though the words are just as important as they’d originally felt to him. 

They’ve talked about anything and everything both online and in person, so none of this _really_ matters, does it…?

“Thanks for being my…” He’s dragging it out on purpose, making it awkward. George pretends to be waiting on the answer with baited breath, and there’s a moment of silence—whether it’s just for the joke or because he actually needs to think up a suitable answer, George will never know. “My… favourite… person…?” George blinks and they stare at each other for a second. “That’s a thing, right?” It’s quite obvious that he’s trying not to laugh.

George rolls his eyes, but his wide smile gives him away. “Sure, it can be a thing. I’ll gladly take the title of Dream’s Favourite Person. That’s gotta be like, a big honour or something, right? Like people would fight to the death over it?”

“Of course they would,” Dream says, and the matter is settled.

The subject turns to other, simpler things, and the exchange is treated like the nonentity that it was; neither of them will remember it tomorrow, or even mere hours from now. It’s already in the process of being forgotten, thoughts scattering like grains of sand in the wind. The moment is over, gone with the tide, and soon the fleeting memory will follow it, replaced with better, more important things. Neither of them will remember it.

Well, George might.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
